


Stars in their eyes

by Arthurian maiden (8Daenerys8)



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Arthur should be a better dad, Bible Reading, But he is doing his best, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Religious Content, Swimming, but nothing too heavy, envy - Freeform, kind Galahad, kind knights, more friendship than love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:57:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8Daenerys8/pseuds/Arthurian%20maiden
Summary: For the prompt:  a h/c one where Mordred has heard that “your father tried to drown you” thing way too many times as a kid and as a result developed a fear of drowning and never learnt to swim, so Galahad tries to help him overcome his fear and teach him how to.
Relationships: Galahad & Mordred (Arthurian), Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Stars in their eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Halja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/gifts).

> Back in 2017/2016 I was writing stories from prompts, then I deleted everything and now I am finally re posting them with better grammar, but, for now, only the Galahad/Mordred (or Galahad & Mordred).
> 
> This was for the prompt: a h/c one where Mordred has heard that “your father tried to drown  
you” thing way too many times as a kid and as a result developed a fear of drowning  
and never learnt to swim, so Galahad tries to help him overcome his fear and teach him  
how to? Or, idk, anything h/c? (for haljathefangirlcat)

Galahad is a pompous disgrace for a man. He is weak, and he loves blabbering about Christ and honor, worse than his father.That’s what Agravaine always says. 

Mordred is back at the Orkneys when he hears of Galahad the first time. He is having dinner with Morgause and his brothers, always a dangerous affair, when Agravaine describes the frail son of Lancelot arriving at Camelot, right out of the nunnery where he was raised. And Mordred laughs, because Lancelot is not so pure and nice anymore, with a bastard son running around the castle. 

Galahad is a pest, defined by his boring talks of religion and stars in his eyes, Gaheris laments, rolling his own eyes and stabbing the roasted pig

Tale after tale, Mordred wonders how come such a delusional ranting man like Galahad seems to be is so close to the king. 

Gawain is of a different mind. He adores the kid, the blond child who managed to elevate the noble deeds of Lancelot instead of disgracing him. However that happened. Gawain thinks Galahad has a bright future, a _destiny_. "It is what everyone is saying." Gareth agrees, but Mordred doesn't think Gareth's opinion really counts. His little brother is in love with Lancelot, and his disgusting worshiping spreads, as the black plague, to everyone with a tiny drop of Lancelot’s blood in their veins.

Head filled with opinions, when Mordred returns to Camelot he is almost curious to see this Sir Galahad with his own eyes. It doesn't take long, among the court, to find that all the worse things he imagined and envisioned are _all_ true. Galahad is closer to Lancelot's calm practicality and smiles than any shadows of innocent ashamed monk Mordred has thought. 

Galahad laughs a lot, which is surprising, as he is, after all, a _bastard_, bringing shame with his own presence to someone as Christian as Lancelot. Galahad doesn't seem to care, he laughs loudly, he fights kindly, in tournaments and training, but fairly, even if it means losing against his own father.

"Disgraceful," Aglovale snorts. Aglovale also probably thinks family and respect should come behind a public show of strength. Mordred is also looking at them, waiting for his own father to call for him (he has returned three days before, and yet, only silence from the king- surely- maybe something else is occupying his mind, something grave, surely, his father wouldn't-). He is eating an orange, because he loves showing the rest of the training knights that Morgause owns too many riches to not waste them on gifts for her sons. And a gift should be flaunted.

Aglovale offers his hand to Galahad, who is surprisingly tiny when compared with the older son of Pellinore. “Are you even trying?” Aglovale adds.

Mordred would love to agree with Aglovale, to taunt Lancleot's son, but he cannot, family ties and old rancor forbids him to even showing Aglovale any consideration. After all, Mordred is supposed to hate Aglovale's family more than Lancelot's. 

“Not really,” Galahad admits, and he is smiling, looking at the ground. He has _dimples_, Mordred notices. “Oranges are distracting me.”

Both the knights turn to look at Mordred and he stops, a piece of orange on its way to his mouth, enraptured by having been noticed. There’s a rule, a secret unspoken rule in Camelot, and everyone follows the rule, everyone _knows_ the rule. The rule states that no one knows if Mordred is on the king's benevolent side, and so, it is better to ignore the incest prince. Arthur's aborted steps of reunion has been anything but serious.  One day he is in his graces, the other day Mordred is just out of reach from them, three days of silence should be enough of a sign for anyone.

And here he was, oranges have been proudly shown, and, apparently, himself with them.

"Excuses," Aglovale chuckles, embarrassed, attention flying over Mordred again, through him, re-establishing normalcy.

Mordred waits, Galahad is looking right _at_ him, as if expecting something. _New knights don't look at him_. Out of his depth, Mordred can only manage to master a "Do not be a beggar", when his hand decides to move again and he bites into his new orange's slice.

“A trader, then,” Galahad replies, and Mordred wonders if he has heard of _him_ as much as Mordred has gossiped about him. He should be waiting for his father’s call, but he is curious of this bastard, and this is new waters for him, so he tries again: “What do you have? Surely not fighting lessons.”

Aglovale is forgotten and the man mutters something quite close to “Children”, even if they are not. He knows not to pick a fight with Mordred, still wary of Gawain's rage against his family, so Mordred can just ignore him. Galahad is not as harsh, and he turns to look at his teacher. "Apologies, I did not have breakfast."

Aglovale passes a hand over his face, shaking his head. He is probably thinking of how much Galahad and Lancelot are alike. "I will see you tomorrow, then, go eat, child," he replies, probably an insult, but Galahad seems to take it with good nature and takes off his helmet, when Aglovale leaves.

Galahad's hair is sticky, blonder than Lancelot. He could almost be queen Guinevere's son. 

“He needed a win, which doesn’t mean I could have defeated him,” Galahad explains, when Aglovale is out of sight.

“So modest.”

“Would you like?” Galahad asks, raising his sword as an offer, disappointing in his lack of Bible quoting as replies. Agravaine did say that the only words coming out of this new Christian knights were only directly out of the Holy Book.

“No. You’ll have to offer me something else and quick, or I’ll finish it,” Mordred keeps eating and he feels like floating in a dream. He can count on one hand the number of knights who talk to him,  
this is new, and almost _exhilarating_, like looking up close at a broken mirrored past: a shameful bastard who is so much loved.

“It doesn’t matter, then, I have nothing else to give,” Galahad laughs, and it is as loud and void of bitterness as the laugh Mordred has spied in the past days.

The bitter part of him wants to squash it, so he says: “My brothers have told me much about you.”

“Your father told me much about you.”

Mordred feels his face pale, the shameful horror that this novelty of a man should have already started his portrait of Mordred with the worst of his greatest enemy. That this man should be accepted into Arthur's confidences- He bites back: “They told me of your religious delusions.”

“ He told me you’re wily of heart,” Galahad smiles, and he walking close now, so close that Mordred can see he is shorter than him, but looking less ridiculous than others in the battered down training armor and chainmaille, his body filling it proudly.

“Is that from your Bible? Wily of heart?”

“Sometimes,” Galahad squares his shoulders, as if he is about to chant, “And behold, the woman meets him, dressed as a prostitute, wily of heart.”

Mordred snorts, orange finished and forgotten. The more he hears about this Bible book, the more he is amused by it. He is not even sure it is a real quote or if Galahad made that up. “Who is this him who is a prostitute?”

“No, she is the prostitute,” Galahad laughs out, a short surprised laugh. 

Mordred wants to hear more, he wants to make him laugh more. He has always liked the power of words, and he feels greedy now that this has started. “Pity,” he answers and Galahad blushes. It’s like playing a new instrument and Mordred can’t stop. “Did he tell you he wanted to turn me into a monk? Close me into a monastery and throw my sword away?”

Galahad snorts, his reactions change so fast, so Mordred continues: “But what about you. I’ve heard you took a sword from a floating rock.” And that was the most ridiculous thing Mordred has ever heard. “Quite a miracle, I thought rocks couldn't float.”

Galahad smiles, sheepishly, “Agreed. I actually threw myself in the lake because I saw something shining at the bottom of it.”

“You’re mad,” Mordred realizes, something almost joyful in his tone.

“I didn’t know how to swim,” Galahad laughs. “But I found the sword. My dog took me back to the river.”

“So trustful. Did he tell you about that time he tried to drown me?” Mordred changes the topic, even if not. He doesn't give a name to the _he_ anymore. It is always him, the king, the king, the king.

Mordred has had all the answers to this line of inquiry. His brothers always reply in anger at those words, reassuring him in his position as one of the family, Guinevere flats her lips, eyes going cold and full of shame, but most of what he gets is disbelief, reprimands for tales he is making up. Merlin has laughed once, that shameful monster.

“Do you remember it?”

That’s a first. “I was just born. Not really.”

“Did you already know how to swim? How were you saved?”

That is the question. How was he saved? What other explanation was there if not his future destiny. His mother and aunt's need for revenge saved him. Some people say even a pact with the devil. “I didn’t know how to swim,” _ridiculous_, “I don’t know how to swim.”

Galahad is surprised. He fidgets with the helm, and tries to move the hair still flattened on his forehead. “Not even now?”

“Of course not. What’s the use?”

“Fun?” Galahad laughs, even if it is less bold. Mordred frowns, drying his hands on his tunic. It will smell like orange. Galahad frowns right back at him, but he doesn't have the face for it, his nose is too large, not pointy enough, his face is too round and open. 

“I will teach you.”

“Already trying to kill me, I see?” Mordred demands, almost a question, voice rising because there is no chance he is getting into a river or a lake and let to this blond hand of God the possibility and chance of drowning him again. Better not to risk the Christian God if really he was saved by demons.

“I would never,” Galahad announces, not a trace of humor on his face. He takes a step closer and Mordred stands up, ready to bolt, as if expecting Lancelot's son to bodily drag him to the lake and throw him right back into it. Galahad opens his arms and hands, and his helmet falls on the ground. "I promise, trust me."

When Arthur summons him, later in the day, the guards can’t find him, his brothers can’t find him. People start to whisper, alarmed, about his absence and Galahad's absence wondering if Mordred truly and finally went mad and killed God's favorite knight. 

And, maybe, Mordred did go mad, because he is at the lake. He is looking at a pale blond Galahad, half submerged in the cold water. He has a hand towards him. 

Mordred always knew he has a death wish, because he starts slipping into the water, walking towards the other knight. He is not undressing, there is no need if this is how God decides to kill him (and if it is, at least, it will be kind, this once time). He walks, step after step, waiting for the moment when it will happen. Merlin was right, his name meant something about the sea- “_Mor_” was that from- the _sea_? He stops.

Galahad takes a step closer to him, he grasps Mordred's wrist and Mordred thinks that has to be it, but Galahad doesn’t pull. His hand is warm, encircling his wrist, a relief from the cold of the lake.

“I can’t believe I am doing this,” Mordred whispers, breath coming out in quickened huffs.

“You made it,” Galahad smiles.  “Next time, we can actually swim.”


End file.
